Sicker Things
by WhisperMaw
Summary: Spot had never meant to get Racetrack involved. Well, it was too late for that now. What happens when Sean Conlon will give his all to protect his Brooklyn Boys no matter who gets hurt in the process. AU Modern High School Sprace Slash
1. Loyalty

The first week of school always stressed Race out more than anything else. The constant influx of new faces and information and teachers made his head spin. He was lucky he'd won the lottery into the charter system back in third grade, he knew that. He was lucky he wouldn't be attending the piece of shit public high school he'd been districted for. He was lucky all of his best friends were going to be there with him but Race really hadn't ever been good with change. The school was going to be bigger and more crowded; less intimate. He'd gotten used to the layout of William R. Hearst Intermediary. He'd even _liked_ it there despite all of the complaining he'd done about it. What was the big deal about high school anyways?

The atmosphere outside was still thick with the memory of summer, not quite ready to let go of the season's warmth in exchange for autumn's crisp air. Race let himself feel the weight of his back pack digging heavily into his shoulders as he breathed in deeply. His lungs protested against the humidity and Race felt the beginnings of sweat prickling at his hair line. He wished the bus would hurry up. The last thing he wanted was to show up to his first class sweaty.

"Hey," the innocent and lack of a characteristic New York accent gave away the voice immediately.

"David," Race replied, giving a half enthused nod in greeting. He shifted his weight back on his heels and shoved his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts. "Talk anyone to death this morning?"

"Shut up," David glowered and glanced back the way he came, looking for someone.

"Uh, preferably your sister," Race pushed on, his upper lip stiffening proudly and despite the fact that David had at least a foot of height on him, managed to peer down his nose in condescension . "But you know Jack wouldn't be too bad either.

David crossed his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes. They waited in silence for a moment or two before David looked around a second time. He opened his mouth to say something but Tony beat him to it.

"Where the hell are they?"

"Jack isn't coming," David noted quietly, receiving a glare from Race.

"Why?" he barked. This was one of the many reasons he hated David. Before David had shown up it had been Racetrack and Cowboy, inseparable boy wonders. They told each other everything, well, almost everything. They'd done everything together. After David, Jack only ever seemed to be around when David was and even though David put out the innocent, nice boy impression, Race could swear there was passive aggression in every word he said.

"His mom wanted to drive him," David replied, clasping a hand to the back of his neck uncomfortably. For a while Dave had tried to get Race to like him. After three years of futile attempts, he'd given up.

The boys heard Ryan and Michael before they saw them.

"Blink! Give that back, you asshole!"

"Not gonna happen, Mushee!"

"You're such a dick!"

A shaggy haired blonde came sprinting around the block holding some sort of notebook tightly under his arm. His cheeks were flushed red from the heat and sweat dripped down the side of his face. An eye patch covered his left eye while the other gleamed clear and blue in the rising sunlight. Moments later a second boy came whipping around the corner. His skin was the light brown color of apple-cinnamon oatmeal with tight dark curls, like a mop on his head and a very annoyed scowl across his soft features. They both came to a stop between David and Race.

"Aw, did Blink steal your diary again?" Race asked cloyingly.

"Fuck you, Race!" Mush snapped breathlessly, leaning forward and placing his hands on his knees to catch his breath. He glared up at a smirking Blink from under his eyelashes.

"Well, if you weren't such a God damn fairy and quit leaving it around, he wouldn't take it!" Racetrack fired back. He was trying really hard not to laugh.

"Give it back, Ryan." David said calmly, a slight furrow in his brow.

"Oh shove it up Jack's ass, Davey!" Blink said lazily, cracking open the book in his hand. He began to read it aloud in a fake British accent. "Dear Diary, I think I've fallen in love with my best friend, Blink, but I know he'll never feel the same way." Blink paused, his smirk turning into a full on grin when he caught sight of Mush's deepening scowl. "Aw, Mushee, I didn't know you felt that way!"

"Fuck _you_." The corners of his mouth had begun to twitch as he fought to hold back a grin. "It doesn't say that."

"No," Blink shrugged. "But it's true."

Mush didn't answer.

Blink perked an eyebrow and the other two boys stared at him, amused.

"What?" Mush shouted, standing up straight. "It doesn't! Besides, Blink isn't my type."

"I'm not?" for a moment the taller boy almost looked crestfallen. He recovered quickly.

"Race on the other hand," Mush slipped an arm around a very angry little Italian.

"You've got five seconds to get your hands off of me."

Mush flinched a little and unwrapped his arm, mumbling an apology. He turned his attention back to Blink and the notebook with his hands on his hips.

"Seriously, Ryan, give it back." David repeated softly, his eyes downcast. He never felt real comfortable without Jack around. The only reason the guys even acknowledged him was Jack.

"Better listen to Davey, 'Ryan'. He said he's serious." Race teased flippantly.

"Shut up," David snapped. And for a second, Tony did. He searched the other boy's piercing eyes; they were sharper than he'd ever seen them. When he blinked it was gone but the moment left Race feeling kind of, well, bad.

Blink must've noticed too because he tossed the book back to Mush who consequently caught it and quickly flipped through the pages, making sure nothing was missing. When he seemed satisfied he pulled his back pack around and slipped the book in.

The boys stood in silence, save for Blink and Mush who'd gotten into a shoving match until one of them had hit the concrete and both of them fell into a fit of giggles. When the bus finally rumbled up, the four of them were hot and sweaty, clothing rumpled and hair frizzled in the humidity. Race was half way up the steps when a nasally voice called out behind him.

"Hey! Wait for me!"

Race looked back and grinned. Good old Crutchy. The gimp was limping as fast as his useless leg would carry him. Some years ago he'd been in a car accident. The shrapnel from the other car had torn so far into the ligaments in his calf that the doctors said they'd probably have to amputate. Crutchy had always been somewhat of a miracle in himself though. He'd been born four months early causing complications that no one knew the extent of. His first years had been touch and go but somehow, despite plenty of doctors telling his parents he wouldn't survive, he pulled through. His leg had been no different, he didn't lose the limb but he had lost most of its mobility.

"Hey, Crutch!" Race returned, his smile broadening.

"Kid, I don't got all day," a thick New York accent came from behind him, deep and raspy. Race turned and his smile was gone.

The man had a sneer that seemed permanently attached to his face, a receding hair line, and the pungent scent of beer and cigars hanging off of him. Race's stomach flipped with anger as the doors closed. He watched through the filth of the unclean windows as Crutchy's freckled face fell.

"Take your seat, kid," the driver said coarsely. Race whipped his head around, his dark eyes flashing.

"What the hell, asshole?" He lost his balance momentarily as the man, despite Race's compromised position in the well of the stairs, pulled away from the curb.

"It's Mr. Wiesel to you," he sneered.

"Whatever, Mr. _Weasel_."

"Sit the fuck _down_."

"Tony," David started cautiously. He stopped when he saw Racetrack glaring up at him.

"Fuck off, David."

Any steel that David had gathered earlier seemed to have vanished. That was fine by Race. The coward was back to being himself.

"Fuck!" Race swore as the Weasel slammed on his brakes, suspiciously harder than necessary, at a red light. He'd hit his shoulder against the railing of the steps and gripped it tightly with the hand of his other arm.

"Race," Mush shouted from the back of the bus. "C'mon. If you don't get back here fast Blink's gonna start trying to make moves on me again."

"Shut up, Princess! You're the one making moves one _me!_" Blink retorted.

"Who are the fags?" Wiesel asked Race, glancing up in the rearview mirror, his lip curled in disgust.

Racetrack had begun sputtering at Wiesel's last comment, unable to find the words. This guy was _asking_ to get his ass kicked. His fist had begun to contract tightly, fingernails digging into his palms. David recognized the way his head had cocked sideways immediately and stepped in just as Race had wound his arm back.

"I'm reporting you to the school," he began forcefully, regaining his confidence. They may not have liked him but Michael, Ryan, Tony, and Andy; they were his friends. "This is completely inappropriate behavior for an adult in any situation, especially one involving teenagers. You've been derogatory and you've placed a student," he paused and gestured to Tony, who was staring dumbfounded up at him, "in danger by driving away without him being secure. If his shoulder is injured, you should bet your ass and every piece of crap you have to it that he'll sue, win, and take you for everything you've got. Don't _ever_ talk to my friends like that again."

It was the Weasel's turn to be dumbfounded.

"Tony," David looked meaningfully at him. He didn't answer. "Tony!" David repeated, louder.

"Alright, alright, I'm not deaf."

David rolled his eyes. "Get up; we're going to the back."

"Don't tell me what to do, _Davey_." Still, Race stood and both boys took seats across from Blink and Mush, who were sitting nearly on top of each other, their eyes trained belligerently on the reflection of the Weasel in his rearview mirror.

Race glared out of the window and ignored the banter being exchanged between Blink and Mush and the occasional sound of David's strained laughter. His face was pressed up against the cool glass and he felt the anger boiling in his stomach. That asshole had left Crutchy…_Crutchy_...in the dust. Men like the Weasel reminded Race why he hated adults so damn much.

The bus came to a stop and Race made the walk back up to the front, pushing the panic bubbling from his stomach down. He took a deep breath and made his way down the stairs, not giving Mr. Wiesel the satisfaction of a look.

The school was located on a Manhattan street corner. It was in slightly better shape than the public schools that Race had seen around his apartment, but not much. Kids were pouring in from either side of the corner and funneling in through the front doors as buses swept in to unload then immediately back out of the way.

"You comin', Racetrack?" asked Mush, his arm slung casually around Blink's shoulders.

"Yeah, I'm comin', Princess," he sighed and took the steps up to the front door. A banner welcomed them as they entered into the lobby reading in bold, red letters: Welcome New Pulitzer Newsies!

"That's fucking stupid," noted Blink.

"Really?" David said thoughtfully, "I think it's kind of cool."

"You would, wouldn't you Davey?" A familiar drawl came up behind the boys and David's entire body slumped a little as he relaxed. Jack. "What d'ya bummers have for first block?"

"I've got English with Notts," Race answered instinctively, he'd memorized his entire schedule the night before, panicking that he would get lost in the new building. Mush and Blink clearly hadn't as they rummaged through their back packs and pulled out crumpled sheets of bright green paper.

"Theater arts with Larken," Mush answered, squinting at the print.

"Same," Blink grinned and slapped Mush on the shoulder.

"Ow!"

"Shut up, pussy."

Jack rolled his eyes, "Goddamn, Ryan, couldn't keep your hands off Michael for two seconds?"

Mush glared at the use of his real name and Jack shrugged in response.

"What about you, Davey?" Jack asked, clapping a hand on his best friend's shoulder.

"Advanced English," he replied uncomfortably. The rest of the boys shifted on their feet awkwardly. They all knew David was smart and they didn't resent him but sometimes they did hate him for it.

"Right," said Jack, filling the silence. "Where's Crutchy?"

Race was the one to explain what happened. Jack's face went beet red.

"Easy there, Cowboy." Mush joked. No one laughed and the silky skinned boy slunk back into Blink.

Needless to say that when the warning bell rang, all five boys were relieved. Jack was scary when he was pissed and he had the tendency to be extremely irrational about it. Race hoped he didn't end up doing something stupid, though he couldn't really think of anything the guy could do. It wasn't like he knew who the driver had been. If given the chance he was pretty sure he'd be irrational _for_ Jack.

Race ended up late to his first class. He'd turned down the wrong hallway twice before he finally found the English room. His face was red and flustered when a man appearing to be in his 30s pushed open the door. He looked impatient.

"As I was saying," he looked pointedly at Race, "tardiness will not be accepted at any time during your career in this classroom."

Race scoffed. Who did this asshole think he was? It was the first day! He'd gotten lost.

"…we'll be reading Lord of the Flies, A Separate Peace, Romeo and Juliet, and the Odyssey. If there are any complaints on the selection I'm afraid you'll have to swallow them…"

After thirty seconds Race had drowned him out completely and started looking around the room. The class wasn't big, only about 25 kids, but larger than what Race had gotten used to. He only recognized a couple from Intermediary and he hadn't been friends with any of them. Suddenly, he felt extremely small and out of place. He was a street rat and while everyone else in the room probably was too, maybe he deserved to go to public school. This shit was wasted on him.

"You're going to make your fingers bleed," a voice whispered from his left. Race snapped back to reality and looked first down at his hands with their torn apart finger tips where he'd chewed them raw and then to the direction of the voice; a girl. She was small and brunette with carefully styled ringlets and wide green eyed. He immediately thought of the kid's movie Bambi.

"What's it to you?" he grumbled back at her.

"Well, they're your fingers," she shrugged.

"That's right, they are mine."

"My name's Katie," she said, smiling.

Race rolled his eyes.

"And yours is?"

"Tony," he answered shortly.

"Nice to meet you, Tony."

He winced at the cheer in her voice, "I wish I could return the sentiment."

"Anthony! Katherine!"

Both heads snapped back to the front. Katie went pale and mumbled an apology. Race didn't give the guy the satisfaction.

"I will not tolerate any wastes of time in this room. If I decide you're being a distraction, you _will_ be kicked out and I _will_ make you stay after school to make up the work." Once again he was looking primarily at Race.

_Great, first day and I'm already the trouble maker, _he thought and although he knew he was the trouble maker, it was the principle of the thing.

"You know," Race drawled, figuring he might as well validate the label Mr. Nott had already placed over his head. "I'd love to spend the extra time with you, _sir_."

Mr. Nott's eyebrows shot up behind circular glasses. He grabbed a clipboard and made a note, deciding to disregard the comment. Race was shocked. He wasn't used to being ignored when he decided to pick a fight. He glanced over at Katie shrinking in her seat.

"What?" he asked incredulously.

She shushed him, "I can't get into trouble."

His eyes rolled. Figures she'd be a straight edge.

The bell rang and Racetrack was glad to get out of there. He had science with Jack next. That would be a lot more bearable. Jack without David was a far better Jack.

"Hey, Tony!" he grinned as Jack came up behind him.

"What's up, Jackie?"

"Have I ever mentioned how much I despise Spanish?"

"Yeah, only a couple of times," he replied sarcastically. Jack bitched more about Spanish than he did about the Mets.

"Tony!" the squeak of the voice caused both Jack and Race to flinch.

"What?" he snapped back, finding wide green eyes as Katie caught up with him.

"I…I'm sorry," she looked down at her feet donning a pair of shoes that gave her five inches on her own height and at least three on Race's. She was tiny, making the plunge neckline of her sundress look awkward. The girl had the body of an eight year old and the face of one trying to look particularly older. Her limbs were lanky and awkward and the veins in her legs showed purple through pale skin. "I, uh, it was just in English…" she trailed off hoping that her classmate would get what she was trying to say. The silence proved he didn't. "Can we be friends?" she finished gawkily.

"What are we? Kindergarteners?" Race asked. Jack was stifling laughter. "If I say yes will you scram?"

She visibly shrunk back but gave a nod.

"Fine," Race threw his hands up a little. "Friends."

"Dude," Jack noted as they walked off.

"Fuck off, Cowboy."

"She looks like she's five."

"What the hell? Why would I care?"

"She has a crush on you."

"Fuck off, Cowboy."

"Well, it's true."

Race rolled his eyes as they entered the biology room together.

**AN:**

**Alrighty, so I started something similar to this in ICE and decided I really hated it and stopped. Spot wasn't working and Race was coming off like a pussy. I didn't like it. It sounded like I was trying too hard so I sat down and revamped it. I actually planned out a plot which I NEVER do. Probably why I fail to finish anything, but that's beside the point. I wanted to let you guys know that I'm already a good ways into chapter two and I wanted to get this out I guess and see if the feed back was better. Idk, the premise of the chapter was mostly expositional. You know, establish Jack, David, Blink, Mush, and Katie. Katie is based off of the musical character Katherine Plumber but not a whole lot. Crutchy got the name Andy off of the guy who played him in the musical, Andrew Keenan-Bolger. Also, every crip ever (well, Archie from 13 and Artie from Glee) have A names that end in a y sound. I promise next chapter features Spot and starts the action. I didn't do a whole lot of research into the New York City charter schools so that's probably very inaccurate. ANOTHER THING a lot of the character traits and some of the backstory in this story were based on either the actors who played them, the original Newsies script, or the Newsboys they were based off of. PLEASE REVIEW. I need in depth critique on my writing, I'll even accept flames to be honest. Something more than an "UPDATE SOON" would be appreciated though like I said, any review at all is appreciated. I'll shout out and privately reply! I'm going to try and update once a week or at least once every other week.**

**DISCLAIMERS:  
A lot of the inspiration for this story came from Everything I've Done Wrong by Sloanne. IF you haven't read it, go do so. It is life changing. That's where most of the real names came from. They had a very large influence on how this story came to be. Obviously Disney owns Newsies. So. Yes. This is obviously none profit. The title came from the Marianas Trench song Sicker Things. **

**Thanks!  
WhisperMaw**


	2. Comfort

Spot could hear the sirens well before they'd gotten anywhere near the rundown warehouse. Years of living like this had him fine-tuned to know the bulls were coming before even the bulls knew they were coming. Ducking inconspicuously behind a slab of lose plank wood, he entered a room pungent with the scent of vomit and drugs. He stifled his gag reflex and went deeper into the room, watching his step to avoid the plethora of needles that had been disposed of on the cold concrete floor.

"Goddammit, Twitch!" he whispered fiercely, his voice like nails.

A small figure in the corner of the room huddled closer to the walls in an attempt to stay as far away from Spot as he could. The small amount of light streaming in between the rafters cast a bluish tint to the boy's face. It was smudged with dirt and his eyes were hollow and blank in their sockets, eyebrows furrowing spastically; a nervous tick.

"Go away, Sean."

"No," Spot's tone was final. "The cops are coming, you've got to get the hell out of here. They convict you one more time and you're not gonna get out for a while."

"So?"

"So, I saw what your last stay did to you. That asshole Snyder has a thing for little boys. Everyone knows it. The guy's a fucking sicko." Spot shifted his weight, the crunch of glass under his sneaker was deafening in the silence.

"They'll never believe it was yours," he slurred tiredly.

"It won't matter," Spot was growing impatient. "They just want to get one of us. What's it matter if it's me? My sentence will be soft, the court will know it wasn't mine and they won't care enough to go looking."

The figure in the corner unfurled and stood shakily, using the wall for steadiness. His frame was unhealthily small and Spot felt a pang in his chest. He was supposes to be taking care of these kids not letting them end up drugged out and fucked up. No, this wasn't his fault. There was only so much he could do. Getting arrested for this kid was one of those things, saving his ass was not. Twitch had to learn how to fix himself. He limped out of the warehouse and Spot watched him go as far as he could; the further Twitch got from him the closer the cops were. Sirens rang clearly through the streets and behind their deafening screech was the more telling sound of doors slamming shut as people hoped the cars weren't coming for them.

Spot did his best to make himself look intoxicated, allowing the bile he'd bitten back to dribble out of his mouth as he lay down on his back. He was vaguely aware of a shard of glass digging into his skin. His eyes had gone glassy by the time a squad of men in blue busted through the wooden plank. They looked around for all of five ticks before noticing Spot sprawled out on the concrete.

"Is he conscious?" one asked.

A second radioed in to the station, asking for a bus. Spot mentally rejoiced. They'd drug test him right off of the bat. He'd be clear before they'd even booked him.

"Did the kid just smile?" asked the third cop.

"Nah," replied the first, "you're losing it."

"Men watch the needles; you never know what kind of shit these rats are into."

Spot was doing his best not to wince as he felt the warmth of blood spreading across his back where the shard of glass was burrowing. The shit he did for his boys. He smirked inwardly at the irony; he was stabbing himself in the back. Relief washed over him when he heard the wailing sirens of the ambulance rolling down the narrow streets of Brooklyn.

An officer came to lean over his body, so close to Spot's face that he could feel the man's breath hot and moist against his skin.

"Suspect's conscious," he noted before roughly taking hold of his arm and dragging him to his feet. Spot was extremely aware of the fingers grabbing bruises into his upper arm and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to deck him. Instead he moaned and tried to appear half-conscious. "You're under arrest for possession, use, and distribution of a banned substance. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?"

"The fuck?" Sean gurgled. "I didn't distribute nothin'!"

The ambulance pulled up outside of the warehouse and the cop dragged Spot out by his arm. Blood had thoroughly soaked through the back of his shirt, black fabric saturated in red from the glass and despite his weak protests the EMTs forced him onto a stretcher before putting him in the back of the van.

The ride to the hospital was short, even New York traffic got out of the way quick for ambulances. Upon arrival Sean was immediately unloaded and brought into the E.R. where a doctor stitched up his back and pulled a blood draw to test for drugs and other banned substances. At age 15, Sean had experienced the routine too many times. It was another twenty minutes before a cop came in to question him, dressed nicer than he was used too; in a pant suit not a uniform. Whatever Twitch had stolen must have been the good stuff.

"Are you under the influence of drugs or alcohol?" she questioned, a soft maternal edge to her tone.

"Can't question me without an adult present, asshole," Sean spat back. They always tried this with him. Maybe if I act sweet enough, like I care, the kid will be stupid enough to talk. Yeah, well, where he came from you couldn't afford to be that stupid. The smirk that had come across the woman's rounded features had begun to freak him out.

"Yeah, _sweetheart_, I already talked to your mother," the maternity was still there despite the biting sarcasm.

Sean's cold attitude was slightly singed, "W-wait what?"

"I'm asking the questions," she replied sweetly. "Now, are you under the influence of drugs or alcohol?"

When Sean didn't answer her smile hadn't faltered at all, "The drug test will come back and we'll know either way."

"No," was all he said in response.

"No?" she asked, hoping for elaboration.

"No, I'm _not_ fucking under the influence."

"Lying isn't going to get you anywhere," she sighed.

"Well it's a good damn thing I'm not lying then, isn't it?"

"Where did the drugs come from?"

"I want to talk to my lawyer."

"Damn it," she grumbled and Sean gave a victorious grin. "Do you even have a lawyer?"

"It doesn't matter once I ask you can't question me further. I'd like to have one appointed."

"You think you've got it all figured out, don't you kid?" the soothing rhythm aggravated the hell out of Spot.

"That's a question," he replied flippantly.

"I'll make the call."

Within a half an hour an attorney was standing at the edge of Sean's hospital bed. The ER had grown crowded as the day went on. The guy looked like some sort of hoity-toity asshole with his hair slicked back and a bowtie that resembled the moldy carpet in the tenant where he lived.

"You're not high," he said blatantly

"Nope," Sean rolled his eyes.

"Sean Conlon, right?"

"And you are?"

"Bryan Denton," he pulled a file out of his briefcase and flipped through it. "You've got a habit of getting arrested for shit you don't do."

"Yeah, so it should be easy to get me off."

"No, they've got you on possession," he replied putting the file back in his brief case.

"So I'm going back to the detention center then," even Spot couldn't hide the fear from his widening eyes.

Denton shook his head, "No. We should be able to cut a deal with the DA's office. They know you were just protecting your own. The city recognizes that you rehabilitate not hinder the boys under your care."

"How the fuck do you know that?"

"I'm a public defender and scared children aren't nearly as tight lipped as you think, kid."

"When can I get out of here?" Sean asked; his back was throbbing with every pound of his heart. He wanted to go home. His mom was going to be pissed. He'd promised to try and stay out of trouble for at least a little while. Court costs were killing them.

"Soon as the tests come back negative," Denton replied, glancing at his watch. "They're going to take you over to the precinct for holding but I don't think you'll be there long. I've already had a discussion with the office. We've come to a pretty clear consensus on what your sentence will be."

"What's it going to be?" he tried not to sound too eager.

"It's not jail time," Denton replied hesitantly.

Sean narrowed his arctic eyes, "So?"

"I can't say right now."

"What do the boys say about me?" the words tumbled out before he'd had a chance to stop them.

The lawyer took it in stride, "Confidential, you'll have to ask them."

Sean opened his mouth to say more but a curly haired nurse pushed the sickly blue curtain open and gave an obnoxiously cheery grin revealing, rancid teeth consistent with a smoker. "Your drug test came back clean," her voice was thick with a Brooklyn accent and coarse with years of tobacco. "Detective Patrick will be escorting you to the precinct and Mr. Denton someone left a message with your secretary out front."

"You brought your secretary along?" Sean smirked.

"I'm a busy man," Denton answered breathily as he picked up his briefcase and left. "I'll see you in a couple of hours for arbitration."

Detective Patrick came in a few moments later, her hair a frazzled mess of dusty brown wisps, pulled haphazardly into a knot at the top of her head. The kindness in her blue-green eyes brought Spot back to a time before Brooklyn, a time before his life had gone to hell, a time he barely remembered unless something like a mother's kind eye brought him back. The memories hit him like waves in the ocean; relentless and unforgiving. If Sean wasn't careful he found himself drowning in them. And as pleasant as they were, it broke him a little bit to know that he'd never get back to them.

_A woman with unnaturally skinny limbs stood at a kitchen counter. The rhythmic click of a knife on a cutting board paired with the scent of browning meat made the young boy's stomach flip with hunger pangs. The smell wound its way deep into the child's sniffs, warming him from the inside out. The aching of his frozen fingers and toes disappeared when he caught sight of the steaming mug of hot chocolate waiting for him on the other side of the counter. He quickly peeled off the layers of jackets he'd donned and shook the snow out of his shaggy blonde hair. A cheeky smile was plastered to his wind burned face when the boy ran up behind the woman and wrapped his arms around her legs. His head came barely up to her backside and when the boy had first touched her she'd jumped before turning and looking down adoringly at her son. His crystal clear eyes came up to meet her…no. No, that wasn't right, those weren't her eyes. _

"Sean," a faint voice called and the phantom rub of a hand on his shoulder brought him reeling out of the depths of his mind. "_Sean_," the voice belonged to Detective Patrick. The eyes Sean had seen had belonged to her as well. The reality of it cracked hard against his chest.

"_What?" _he snapped back.

"Stand up," she said quietly, directing him to turn around and face the wall. He did so with an audible grunt of disapproval and a wince as she hooked his hands behind his back and his wrists into the familiar cool metal of handcuffs. Her hand gripped his shoulder firmly but not painfully so as she gently steered him into the back of her unmarked car.

They rode in silence to the precinct, the only sound made by the buzzing of the engine. Sean was grateful. He was rarely in the mood to talk to his friends and he was _never_ in the mood to talk to adults. The challenge was making enough noise _inside_ of his head to keep his thoughts silent too. That was one of the many reasons Sean loved being around the boys. They didn't talk to him but they made enough noise that Sean couldn't think if he wanted to.

Detective Patrick pulled up to the building where an officer, dressed in regular blues, was waiting. He lacked the gentle touch that begrudgingly had given Sean some sick sort of comfort. He wouldn't admit that he longed for it; a comfort he hadn't known for some time. Sean shook his head, dyed-dark hair flying like a dog. The thought disappeared and he realized he'd been holding his breath as the door to the holding cell closed.

When Sean found the steel to turn around he forced the fear right back down his throat and turned on the ice at the bottom of his stomach, allowing it to creep all the way up to the top of his head; escaping only from the tight set of his jaw and the cold, hard stare in his eyes.

Three other kids were in there with him and out of the three he was surprised to find he didn't recognize a single one. Kids around Brooklyn, especially the sort that ended up in prison, had a tendency to know their way around each other. In particular, Sean did. He had young kids to watch out for and he made it pretty damn clear who it was okay to fuck with and who it wasn't. The guys in holding today however, weren't of the usual sort. All three of them were dressed relatively nicely, nothing like the street rats Sean kept tabs on. Which, if their unfamiliar faces hadn't put Spot on edge, that had. He watched carefully as the three sized him up.

All of them had dark features; tanned skin and black eyes so dark and beady they were bird-like. From what he could tell, the smallest of the bunch was the brains. He was tiny with skin slightly darker than the other two's and looked no older than eleven but Sean knew he had to be. A mop of curls stayed well clear of his face and the way his dark eyes flitted expertly over Sean reminded him very much of himself. He began to feel like a lion in a cage at the zoo; powerful, lithe, and unable to do anything about the prying eyes staring down at him.

The small one mumbled something in Spanish to the tallest, who subsequently pushed thick, straight, raven strands of hair back behind his ears and began to approach Spot. Immediately Sean felt his muscles tense and his pale fists clench at his sides. The painful strum of the stitches in his back had faded to a dull ache as all of his attention honed in on the older teen

Every molecule of Sean's skinny frame was in the defensive; prepared for a fight that he'd probably lose to a guy who was twice his size. Still, he didn't believe in going down without a fight. He was completely shocked, however, when the guy didn't start taking swings at him. Not shocked enough to not know what was going on, but to the point where he wasn't in a state to do much about it. Even Sean couldn't hold back the anticipative whimper as it escaped from his lips when the older boy had pushed him up against the bars of the cell.

"Aw," he started, his breath hot against Spot's face. "Did you hear that boys? The little Mick's afraid."

Mick. The word sounded vaguely familiar. Maybe his father had said something to him about it but then he hadn't seen his father since…No. He was pretty sure it meant something derogative just by the tone the guy had used and not nearly as sure that it had something to do with him being Irish.

"What the fuck?" he growled, regaining some composure. He tried to wriggle his wrists free from where they were held over his head to no avail. "What are you guys, Latin Kings?"

An exchange in Spanish took place between the other two boys. Whatever was said had the third boy, the one who'd become uncomfortably close to Spot, smirking. "You know what we do to Westies like you?"

The realization hit him like a punch in the gut. He didn't recognize these guys because they _weren't_ street thugs. The Westies, although not something anyone Spot knew was involved with, were known by every little Irish boy in New York.

He squirmed under the Mexican's grip and turned his head to get his face as far away as he could, "You assholes, I'm not _that_ kind of gangster. Are you blind? I'm 20th Avenue not the fucking Irish Mob."

"What's your name, Mick?" asked the brain.

"Does it fucking matter?" he spat.

"If you want to stay a good catholic boy," a meaningful glance was given to the boy hovering over Spot and the meaning became clear as his hands slid roughly down over his body, coming to rest far lower than he was ever going to be okay with. That did release his hands but for as hard as he fought back the guy pushed himself harder against Spot, making it impossible to move.

"Well, I'm not a Catholic you fucking prick," Sean fired back, trying hard to keep the tremor away from his words.

"Good," replied the big one, "Maybe you'll enjoy this."

Before he'd even had a chance to tighten his grip further on the quivering form beneath him, Spot had thrust his hips backward and the sickening crunch of his hands against the cool metal bars was quickly followed by a howl of pain. As soon as the guy had let go, Sean had slid out from under his hulking body; his icy eyes meeting the bottomless pit of the brain. He was sure to keep the stare frigid and blank, pouring every bit of apathy he had into it.

"The little bitch fucking broke my hand! Teeny!"

"Shut up, Bumlets," the small one said coolly, without taking his stare away from Sean who'd begun to smirk at Bumlets distress.

"Seeing as you're a petty thief compared to us," Teeny hissed. "I'd answer the fucking question."

"Don't tell me what to do," Sean replied unwaveringly.

"If you have any value for the life of your little _parasites_, I'd listen."

That was when he pulled the knife out of his mouth; a little switch blade that had been tucked up between his teeth and cheek. Of course none of the officers in the precinct were paying a lick of attention the four fuck ups in holding and Spot wasn't the type to scream, so the way he saw it, he was very screwed.

"Now, you're going to give Bumlets what he wants," the malicious grin was disorienting on the face of a boy who looked so young.

Sean was going to be sick. He'd been to prison. He knew how shit worked in there. He understood what made Clyde Barrow go off the walls when he'd been locked up. There was no blame from Sean Conlon for a man who'd lost faith in the legal system. There was nothing redeeming about it and for every boy that Sean saw go into the system came out jaded and changed.

"Sean Conlon?"

Never in his life had he been so glad to see a lawyer. The cop standing behind the well-dressed but mediocre man didn't see the glint of the blade as Teeny folded it and placed it back into its niche, he did notice the swelling in Bumlets hands. So did Sean, though he had a feeling he was viewing it far more admiringly.

"The asshole was trying to…" Sean trailed off as the eyes of four different lawyers stared at him from across the table and from the way Denton was looking at him, he had a feeling that the man really wanted to throw an arm around his terrified shoulders. Luckily, all of the adults understood what Spot was far too uncomfortable to say. And Denton was smart enough to keep his hands off.

"There won't be charges pressed," said one attorney with thick glasses obscuring half of her face.

Spot was silent.

"Alright," Denton rubbed his hands together and pulled a file out of the briefcase he had propped against his chair. "So, we've already come to a conclusion on sentencing for the charges brought up on possession and distribution, correct?"

"I didn't fucking—"

"Sean," Denton cut him off with a sharp glare that didn't dare beg the teenager's trust.

"Yes," a different attorney replied, perking a brow at Sean's outburst. "We have."

No one said a word for the time it took for the second hand on the clock to make a full rotation. With each tick Spot had fidgeted a little more until he couldn't take it anymore.

"Well?" he snapped again.

"We're sending you to school," the spectacled woman piped up.

Spot was incredulous.

Denton elaborated, "Yes, uh, the best charter school in New York."

"Your attendance will be required and you will be escorted daily by an officer," explained the lawyer who'd yet to speak.

How the hell was he supposed to protect his boys if 7 hours of his day were spent in a classroom? Spot hadn't attended school regularly since…No.

"What school is it?" Spot asked through clenched teeth.

"Joseph Pulitzer Academy of Education," Denton answered, smiling encouragingly. Spot really wanted to punch him.

"That sounds fucking stupid," he sulked.

"Would you prefer Juvenile Detention?" Denton asked. Sean didn't even need to shake his head.

Something about the name rang familiar in Spot's head but he'd dredged up the past enough in the previous eight hours and the last thing he needed was another break down.

"Where is it?"

"Manhattan," replied the spectacled lady cheerily.

His stomach plummeted, "Can I go home now?" Denton placed a stack of paperwork in front of him followed by a pen.

"Yeah, just sign these."

He did without complaint.

"You can go wait up in the lobby for your mom, kid," the heaviest of the men told Spot with an unrequited smile.

"My mom's here?" raw hope was resonant in his innocent words.

"She's got to sign the paperwork, too," Denton explained patiently.

When they passed each other in the hallway, they didn't so much as acknowledge the other's existence. He lived with her and her indifference to him every day but that didn't mean it hurt any less. As he waited in the leather chairs of the precinct lobby his hand drifted up his back to where the stitches pulled his skin taut, applying pressure to the sore tissue. He gave a sigh of relief, reveling in the pain as he dug his fingers hard into the wound and did his best to remember a time when pain hurt less than comfort.

**AN: Chapter two only two days late! I'm again disclaiming to have any knowledge of New York or its legal systems. The three boys in holding with Spot were supposed to be Itey, Bumlets, and the little kid who was always last out of the lodging house (Teeny). They're Mexican Mobsters hells yeah. Spot doesn't believe in hard crime though so he doesn't get involved with that. Denton was the lawyer, a public defender who specializes in misguided children and teens. He protects the weak and pays for lunch, yeah? Detective Patrick was none other than… PATRICK'S MOTHER, a small cameo. She may or may not be coming back into the story later. Either way, I really like her. She's a cool lady. Next chapter we start Spot and Race at school together. Yay for school! Uhm, other notes I suppose would be that comfort and pain were both extremely prominent within the chapter as loyalty was in the last one so I guess that's the theme of the day today. Hurrah for comfort! **

**DISCLAIMERS: No characters are mine. They all belong to Disney, I'm not making money off of this, if I could make money off my writing, I would be. Everything You've Done Wrong and Take Good Care of the Poor Boy by Sloanne have had strong influences on this, you can see those influences anywhere in this from the real names of the characters to small plot points although for the most part this is an original plot. **

**SHOUT OUTS:  
I loved my review! It was super sweet and insightful so….  
shinigami nanoda: I really appreciate you stopping in and giving me a constructive review! I'm glad you like the David/Race interaction. I got it from in the film when Race starts yelling at David, "I ain't deaf!". I tried to keep the Mush/Blink interaction as true to the film as I could because you do see them laughing and teasing eachother constantly! And yes, Spot will have interesting effects on all of them. Particularly Jack, Race, and David. **


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